Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

EMMELINE

Three weeks later

Cum drips down my inner thigh as I peer over the edge of the boiling pot. Even though he fucked me before he left for work, every now and then, some of his essence continues to find its way running down my leg. Heat flushes my cheeks as I squeeze my thighs together, but that does nothing to quell the need squirming in my gut.

Nausea and arousal race down my spine, nearly bowing me up as I try to bring my mind to the task at hand. It doesn't help that my clammy hands tremble as I pick up the wooden spoon. Now is not a time for me to get sick.

Hot and cold wash over me in alternating intervals, but nothing stays long enough for me to understand what's happening. Wiping my brow, I stir the noodles, concentrating very hard on getting them right instead of something that probably has no bearing on anything.

With Branson coming off his shift soon, I want him to have a hot meal and a lovely wife to greet him. Besides, he'll be able to tell me what's wrong. If anything.

Squinting down into the pot, I continue to stir, my insides clenching as I watch the noodles dance in the water. Somehow, they don't look right. I can't place my finger on it, though I wish I could. It's this itch in the back of my head that demands I throw it out and start again.

Tears dot my eyes as I drag the pot over to the sink and dump out the water before trashing the noodles. I hate wasting his money like this. I know he doesn't have much. Paying for this new house must have drained the last of his finances.

He doesn't have to say it. I can see it in his eyes, in the pinched expression around his mouth, and in the ferocity of how he fucks me. On top of all of that, I can't even get noodles right. Dragging out the box, I turn on my communicator, watching again as she boils the water and drops the noodles in.

Easy.

It should be so freaking easy. And yet, here I am struggling.

All that wealth I grew up with and for what? I'm helpless in the most basic of things. Turning from the stove, I straighten up the kitchen as the water heats up. This is something I can do, at least.

But with each swipe of my rag on the granite countertops, I find that it's just not getting clean enough. No matter how hard I scrub, it's not right. Nothing is right. Glancing at the clock, I frown as the minutes tick by. Nothing is accomplished.

A heavy sigh heaves from my lips as I leave the kitchen and gather the clothes in the bedroom. Simple enough. I've watched plenty of videos. I've had Branson train me on how he likes his laundry done. I've even managed to do loads on my own where everything turned out right.

Unfortunately, picking up the clothes turns into straightening the bed, which turns into the hyper fixating on the sheets as I yank and tug, doing my best to make them right. Tears fall in earnest as I fail at this simple task. Something I've done every day now.

Nausea grips me as I continue to pull and stretch, removing every wrinkle I can see. Why won't they go away? The sheets at home never had a wrinkle in them until I slept on them. Now, I can't seem to get these darn things to stretch enough to make them go away.

"Damn it," I whisper under my breath, still not okay with cursing loudly.

Unfortunately, I feel like this warrants it. A scream of frustration vibrates in my throat as I yank the sheets off and hunt down another pair. All of them are dirty. How did I let it get so far behind?

Bringing them to my nose, I inhale as deeply as I can, trying to figure out which might be usable until I can wash the others. Once Branson's scent hits my nose, my stomach cramps. Slick slides down my thighs, making them sticky and damp.

My body drops to the floor as a massive cramp sears through me, robbing me of my breath. Crying out, I reach over for my communicator and call Branson. Nothing. It goes straight to voicemail.

"Fuck," I scream, doubling over as pain, heat, and need vacillate through my body.

My fingers tremble as I dial another number. One I vowed never to call again since that fateful day.

"EMS, what's your emergency?"

"Branson," I croak out. "I need Branson."